


No Gods, No Masters

by Saint_Rick_The_Dick



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: F/M, Mentions of Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 11:31:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13410342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saint_Rick_The_Dick/pseuds/Saint_Rick_The_Dick
Summary: Victorian AU where Rick brings the Reader to life a la Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein





	No Gods, No Masters

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea I have had in my head for a VERY long time, but never got around to actually writing because, well, frankly it’s damn intimidating to take on something this big. However, thanks to this [beautiful](http://pluviofleur.tumblr.com/post/169813593900/commission-for-another-sanchez-slut-3-im) piece of art I had commissioned, the inspiration came roaring back. This may be the only part I ever post, or I may continue it and write a million chapters. I don’t know. But I’m excited to share.

_Correspondence dated January 19th, 1818 from the desk of Dr. Richard Sanchez: **  
**_

_My Creation,_

_I write this to you so that you might know the true breadth of my depravity, that which fuels me and drives me to attempt such vile acts. You, my dear, were to be my masterpiece. The pinnacle of scientific ingenuity, a testament to man’s conquest over the eternity of death! But instead, I fear I failed you, and for that I shall burn alone in this hell of my own design._

_Know that the divine does not exist within me for I am merely a man, a broken man who played at being God, a man whose hubris overcame his logic. I would never ask for your forgiveness. Instead, I merely ask that you remember me as I was rather than as what I have become._

_Do not forget me. Please._

_Yours Always,_

_Rick_

********

The tunnels below the morgue were frigid, teeming with vermin. They scattered at the sound of his footsteps, the patter echoing off the brick walls as they fled before him; a biblical plague. Dr. Sanchez paid them no mind. He was pressed for time, the storm set to roll ashore off the coast in less than an hour. It required he locate an appropriate specimen lest he miss this narrow window of opportunity.

“Doctor, good to see you.”

Rick grunted in acknowledgement. With a gloved hand, he slipped a bag of coins from his jacket pocket and tossed it to the man. The attendant noted the heft and nodded curtly - Dr. Sanchez wasn’t one for niceties - before opening the barred door.

The smell hit first, making Rick’s stomach churn. While the overtones were sweet, as the bodies reached later stages of decomposition the aroma shifted, turned sinister, producing a rotten undercurrent which assaulted the senses. He scowled at the offerings, unimpressed.

“I-I need the fresh ones. These - they’re all too  _old_.”

Motioning for Rick to follow, the attendant led him further into the morgue, lantern held above his head. The flickering of candles cast sharp shadows along the walls, ghosts of the past leaping up to leer at anyone who dared intrude upon their solitude. This place did not belong to the living.

Pausing, the attendant nodded.

“These were brought in only two hours ago.”

Rick leaned over, inspecting a pallid corpse. His frown lines deepened, his brow a V of barely concealed annoyance.

“What was the cause of death? Starvation? Too - much too skinny.”

He moved to the next one, sneered. “Missing half his head. Useless.”

And the next. “I-I see the rats got here first.”

But then he stopped mid-stride, took a step back. With wide eyes he grinned, ghoulish, in the low light. Rick motioned to the body.

“This one… This one is _perfect._ ”

****

Lightning split the sky in a flash of brilliance, illuminating rooftops and reflecting off windows, sending late night revelers ducking for cover from the impending deluge. Thunder boomed a moment later, followed by cold, hard drops of rain; first one, then ten, then ten thousand. The storm was upon him. It was almost time.

Rick scrambled down the iron steps, jacket removed, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His unruly hair was an erratic mess of blue-gray, face manic as he rushed about the makeshift lab to complete the final preparations. An old clothing warehouse in the industrial district, it was a constant work in progress, filled with the results of years of rabid experimentation. The space was large, airy, with high ceilings and grime covered windows lining the top, dingy boxes of musty garments stacked haphazardly in dark corners. A testament to the disorder and brilliance of the man whose mind it represented, rejected bits of electrical equipment, along with a collection of plastic tubing, copper wire and an array of rusted tools lay along the shelving attached to almost every wall. Bottles of scotch, fountain pens and ink-stained notes littered the top of the only piece of actual furniture; a desk, wooden and antique. It was inherited with the building.

The roof had partially collapsed, allowing the rain to pour in unhindered. Rick was soaked, clothes sticking to his pallid skin, yet he didn’t feel the cold. Excitement thrummed, filled his mind, a mantra, a single bright point of focus - tonight tonight it would happen tonight.

“C’mon, c’mon,  _c’mooon.”_

Hand on the lever, he waited. And waited.  _Waited._

And there it was; that low, incessant buzz growing, building. The hair along his arms stood at attention, the teeth seemed to vibrate in his skull, his eyes watered…

He yanked as the lightning struck the rod anchored to the roof, the electrical current shooting, snaking along the line of metal and wire which fed the levered box inside. There was an explosion of sound, a dazzling glare of white, and Rick was thrown forwards, banging his shin against a work table, sending sparks of pain up his thigh. Shaking and disoriented, the rain continued its assault as he crawled over the floor, across the myriad of wires. Shards of broken glass bit into his knees and palms, ruined his trousers, forced him to leave tiny puddles of crimson in his wake.

Yet the obsession was paramount and the pain went unnoticed. To him, there was only the metal tub and its contents. Grasping the sides, he struggled to his feet, his shin aching from the impact with the workbench, only to find… Nothing. The body beneath the surface was still and lifeless. A drowned corpse.

Cursing, Rick wrenched away, grabbed the nearest object - a tin of old screws - cocked his arm back and threw. It burst against the wall in a shower of metal as he bellowed his rage to the night sky.

Cold, wet, lost in thought, he limped towards the desk, grabbed a bottle and chugged. How long would he have to wait for another chance? Weeks, at least. Assuming he could even get his hands on a body in good condition, the next storm capable of producing lightening of the magnitude necessary to accomplish his goal was not a common occurrence. So, possibly  _months_. Furious at the wasted potential, he slammed the bottle down, thought better of it and threw it, too, just to hear the shatter.

“ _FUCK._ ”

Shivering, he ran a hand through his hair, donned his jacket (which was mercifully dry) and began to collect his scribbled notes when he heard… Was that?

A splash. Unmistakable among the drip drip dripping of the last dregs of rain.

Rick turned, eyes wide. Holding his breath, he froze, willed the noise to repeat itself.

That splash become a slosh became water pouring over the edge of the tub before a hand - your hand - gripped the side with cold, blue fingers. You erupted, naked, from the frigid depths gasping, screaming, and as you began to haul yourself up and out of the basin Rick exploded into movement.

For him, everything seemed to slow down, his feet suddenly too sluggish to cross the distance. Ignoring the glare of pain in his leg, he ran, slipped in a puddle, cursed, caught himself, and then dove forward once he realized he would not reach you in time. Twisting his body, arms outstretched, you landed on his chest, soaking him, as you continued to wail - in pain, confusion, terror - incoherent and without reason. Cradling you against him, he shushed, petted your hair, whispered endearments and words of comfort until your shrieks became whimpered hiccups. Teeth chattering, fists bunched in the fabric of his waistcoat, you clung to him, finding your voice.

“C-c-cold! Cold! I’m s-s-so cold.”

Rick looked around, frantic. Grasping the edge of a nearby canvas, he grabbed and pulled, wrapped it around the both of you. Together, you huddled under its meager warmth as you shivered and mewled. Rick’s gentle speech, meant to calm and console, washed over you.  

“Shhh - shhh. I-I’m here. It’s - everything will be fine. You’re alive because of me, do you know that? I made you. You’re my - my creation. My beautiful achievement. I’ve waited years,  _years_ , for this single moment. A-a-and now you’re  _here_.”

He kissed your forehead, pulled you in tighter. The note of triumph in his next words did not go undetected, though it would be months before you realized its true implications.

_“I did it_.”

You were alive, and Rick was a God.


End file.
